Vondarrien

I couldn’t believe my eyes: she was headed right toward me.

 
Stacy.

I’m guessing that’s the spelling.
Stacey, maybe? Or Staci? Staycie?
Who the hell knows?

I hadn’t actually had the privilege of learning the way she spelled it. She just introduced herself.

It was about a week ago. At the gym.
Well, technically on the elevator. Leaving the gym. Heading to the parking lot. The elevator chimed. The doors opened. Being a gentleman, I turned to see if there were any women I should let on first.

And there she was.

The same girl I’d seen working out earlier. She’s definitely attractive, but more girl next door than supermodel. However, she’s got that nice athletic body type that kills me. Most likely perfected and maintained through countless hours at the gym.

Good lawd.

I’ve admired her, from afar, for quite some time.
Nothing creepy. Or obvious. But on the infrequent chance of seeing her there, I’d take a prolonged, yet discreet glance. And I ain’t one of those weirdos who goes to the gym just to ogle women. However, it’s nearly impossible to be in the presence of an attractive woman (wearing skimpy workout attire) and not steal a glance. Am I not a man?

While I was obviously quite aware of her, she most likely had no idea who the hell I was.

She’s usually all business.
Head down. No eye contact. Neutral facial expression.
Going hard on the treadmill. Or other cardio equipment.

One Sunday morning I found myself working out in the same isolated area that she was. Just the two of us with no one else around. She stretched while I did plyometrics (fancy talk for jumping on a box).

Now, the obvious question becomes: why not seize this golden opportunity and talk to her?

A few reasons:
1) I don’t go to the gym to holla at women
2) Even if I did, the same out-of-gym rules apply: I ain’t approaching nobody without a CLEAR signal beforehand (a smile, prolonged eye contact, etc)
3) I’ve heard countless stories of lames harassing women while they’re working out. I’m not trying to be that guy

Therefore, I continued my workout.

At one point, I mistimed my jump and almost wiped out spectacularly. I barely managed to catch my balance to avoid crashing to the floor with my kettlebells. Totally embarrassed, I looked over to see if she’d witnessed my blunder. She was looking at her iPod. Like I wasn’t even there.

All business.

It was a telltale sign that it was time to depart. I made my way to the locker room, got dressed, and headed to the elevator. I looked back before getting on—and there she was.

This time, however, something was different.
Her neutral expression was gone. Instead, she was smiling. Rather broadly. At ME.

Ever the chivalrous man, I let her on first (also giving me the opportunity to check out her spandex-covered ass. Ka-POW!).

I got on and pressed the button for the fourth floor, where my car was parked.
“Five,” she said, asking me to press the button for her.

Unbelievable; she was still smiling. Looking right into my eyes. Whatever defenses she had up at the gym were long gone. Now she was friendly and approachable.

I had to seize the moment.

She abruptly blurted, “Nice to meet you” before I got a chance to speak.
What? We hadn’t actually formally met. Call me crazy, but I took it as a sign that she’d like more from our interaction.

I extended my hand. “What’s your name?”
“Stacy,” (my best guess at how it’s spelled).
“I’m Von.”

Unfortunately, the elevator chimed immediately afterward.
Our brief chat was prematurely interrupted by reality.
We’d reached the fourth floor. My stop. Time to get off.

Dammit!

Everything happened so fast.
Should I ask for her number?
Accompany her to the fifth floor and walk her to her car?
I desperately needed more time. Another 10 or 15 seconds.

In the absence of such a luxury, and not wanting to rush things and seem creepy, I could only say that it was nice meeting her. And that hopefully I’d see her later.

Unbeknownst to me, “later” meant six days after our initial encounter. She just happened to be walking toward me as I left Saturday morning spin class. What were the odds? I figured it’d be a miracle if I saw her anytime soon.

My opportunity was now.

I waved at her.
Unfortunately, something was drastically different this time. Gone were the wide smile and friendly demeanor of a few days ago. They were replaced by the neutral expression. She’d returned to business mode. She looked at me and quickly looked back down at the floor.

As my hand dropped in extreme disappointment, she looked again, briefly, and gave a short, insincere non–tooth-bearing “smile” before lowering her head again.

Thoroughly defeated, I hung my head in disgrace before taking the humiliating Walk of Shame down the stairs—while the Price Is Right loser’s horn played in the background.

When will I ever learn?